


Come & Get It

by AequusAlacrisAmica (FelixFeroxFilia)



Series: Masters and Slave Verse [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, M/M, Master/Slave, Sexual Slavery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-30
Updated: 2013-07-30
Packaged: 2017-12-21 22:07:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/905494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FelixFeroxFilia/pseuds/AequusAlacrisAmica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Damian plans on taking over the family business at some point. Might as well start learning the ropes now. And if that means getting his own slave sooner rather than later... Well, he's not about to complain. Too bad he's in for more than he bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come & Get It

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Masters and Slave Verse](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/25432) by Zarabithia. 



Damian strolled through the slave pens, hands in his pockets, eyes alight and noticing everything. He had come to the market place by himself as soon as he turned eighteen. As a legal adult, Damian was that much closer to inheriting his father’s lands, title, and wealth; not to mention his profession: breeding and selling slaves, and he wanted to be as prepared as possible.

 

Trading in slaves was a somewhat distasteful profession though not unheard of. In his mother’s land the slave practice wasn’t as sexualized as it was here, and it had taken Damian a while to get used to seeing slaves put in such provocative garments when he moved into his father’s estate.

 

Once he had become accustomed, however, Damian was almost ashamed to admit how well he fell into the role of Master. It had certainly helped him during his younger, teenage years when his hormones had run rampant. Having a stable full of available, well-trained sex slaves who knew how to respond to a Master had come in handy more than once.

 

But here, on this day, Damian was not looking to buy or sell, or even just to gaze at pretty slaves (he saw enough of them at home anyways). No, today he was here to size up the competition. The House of Wayne was not the only breeder of slaves in Gotham, not even the largest if he was honest. But what Wayne’s stables lacked in quantity they made up for in quality. The slaves from them were well known, even beyond Gotham, for their beauty and talents in the bedroom.

 

Bruce, his father, was content with their status and did not see the need to change his ways, or actively check out the competition like Damian was doing. Damian had thought him foolish at the time, although now that he was here, was disgusted at slowly being proven wrong. Farther along, past the more reputable stalls that included the one Wayne House used, things got noticeably dirtier and less cared for. The slaves in these stalls were broken in mind, body, and spirit. Some were too young but most were too old. All were dirty and emaciated, their iron collars hanging loosely around their necks, eyes hollow and dead. These were no match for the slaves of Wayne’s stables.

 

Damian was about to turn around and head home, discouraged, when the sound of shouting and the cracking of a whip caught his attention. Curious despite himself, Damian wandered over to one of the end stalls. It was where temporary sellers set up shop; usually hawking slaves for wanderering owners who moved from city to city, selling and buying whatever they could get their hands on.

 

This particular seller was almost as dirty as the slaves. His scruffy, worn clothing and full belly the main indicator that he owned to a slightly higher station. This was not to mention the whip in his hand, which was being used to threaten a boy who could not be but a few years younger than Damian.

 

Neither the slave nor the seller noticed him arriving. They were too busy with their fight to pay attention to the world around them.

 

“You’re not my master!” The slave shouted, his stance strong, in a rough imitation of a professional fighter’s. “I will _not_ be soiled by the likes of you!”

 

The slave attempted to spit at the aforementioned seller’s feet, but nothing came out. Extreme dehydration had dried his mouth and cracked his lips, which were bleeding slightly from shouting at the portly seller. And, like the other slaves, he was extremely emaciated. His ribs were noticeable even from this distance and his shoulder bones jutted out of his skin. Damian was impressed he had the stamina to resist the seller at all, let alone shout and attempt to fight back like he was doing now.

 

‘Attempt’ being the operative word because for all of his efforts, the slave was failing. The seller was healthier, larger, and stronger, not to mention armed with a heavy whip that was actually meant for livestock, not human slaves.

 

Damian and the slave flinched at the sound as the whip cracked through the air once again. Really, was this necessary?

 

The seller was grabbing the slave by the hair, shaking him and snarling, “Ye will do whut I tell ye to do, trash!” when Damian felt like it would be a good time to clear his throat. He was not usually one to get between a seller and his wares, but something in the boy’s attitude struck a chord with him. He was not broken like the others slaves in the area, and even showed more spirit than some of the slaves in the Wayne stables. Damian admired his tenacity.

 

Damian solidified his decision when they both turned to look at him. The slave’s ice-blue eyes were alive with emotion when holding the young lordling in his gaze. There was no doubt in Damian’s mind; he wanted this one for himself.

 

The seller quickly dropped the slave and came over to Damian, his smile and manner nearly as oily as his unwashed hair.

 

“An’ wha can I do fer ye, Young Master?” he said, his accent thick.

 

“I’d like to purchase this one,” he said, his eyes still on the boy who had collapsed onto the dirty floor the moment he was released.

 

“This un?” the seller said, looking over his shoulder and scowling at the slave. “He’s an ungrateful mite, likely as not to bit the hand tha feeds him. I wouldn’t recommend ‘im to someone such as yo’self. How abou’ one of these?” He asked, gesturing to the rest of the slaves in his line, all of whom had cowered as far away from the boy and the seller as their ankle cuffs would permit.

 

They did not interest him.

 

“When I want your opinion, shop keeper, I will ask for it,” Damian said, already tired of the man’s oily manner and rancid stench. “How much for _this_ one?” he asked, his tone indicating that he was growing impatient.

 

The seller’s eyes flicked over Damian’s form, taking in the luxurious make of his garments and the wealth that Damian exuded, from the gold earring in his left ear to the fine crafted leather boots that shod his feet.

 

“A gold bit,” he finally said.

 

Damian scowled. He wouldn’t have paid a silver bit for two boys in this condition, let alone a gold one.

 

“Do not take me for a fool, shop keeper. It will not end well for you if you do.” His tone was icy and the seller flinched at his words.

 

He looked back over at the boy, who was still watching them warily; his eyes alight with fear and ill-disguised interest.

 

 “Five silver bits,” Damian said, not taking his eyes off the boy. “Take it or leave it. That is my final offer.”

 

The seller appeared to be weighing his options, but Damian knew that was at least twice as much as the boy was actually worth. The seller would find no better deal in Gotham or anywhere else for that matter.

 

“Deal,” the seller said after a moment’s thought. Damian fished the coins from his purse and dropped the money into the man’s outstretched hand, careful not to touch him. He wanted no part of this filth on his person.

 

The seller shuffled over and unlocked the boy’s link to the larger chain, roughly pulling him to his feet and shoving him in Damian’s direction. The boy stumbled a bit before righting himself, and Damian indicated to him that he should follow behind.

 

His new slave was quiet, save for the clinking of the chain connecting his ankle cuffs, as they made their way back into the more reputable part of the slave market. Damian glanced back once to see that the slave’s eyes were glued to him, methodically studying his new master. That, like the boy’s actions in the slave pen, sent a tendril of excitement through his stomach.

 

This one was a fighter, he could tell. It made Damian want him, long to possess him and the fire that still burned brightly inside of him. And he didn’t mean just sexually either; although that was certainly one of the activities he had planned. The boy was a sex slave after all. His sex slave.

 

Soon they found themselves in the area of the marketplace that held items to purchase for the slaves: clothing, collars, chains, bindings, toys, etc. Damian didn’t need much; they had plenty of these things back at the estate. However, he did purchase a pair of cheap cotton pants for his new slave to put on. It was mostly to keep the seat clean as they rode back to the estate, but Damian liked the way the boy’s spine straightened when he could walk around decently covered. He noted that for later use.

 

Damian eyed the chastity belts, wondering if he needed one. Looking at his slave he asked his first question of the boy, “Are you untouched?”

 

The boy, startled to be addressed, responded on reflex, “No,” he said before belated adding on, “My Lord.” His gaze turned wary as he said this, clearly unsure if this would make Damian angry or not.

 

Damian clicked his tongue unhappily, but said no more, once again gesturing for the boy to follow him. He wasn’t surprised by the news that the boy wasn’t untouched. He was only a few years younger than Damian himself and most slaves lost their virginity long before that. What did surprise Damian was the small surge of jealousy this knowledge elicited before he quickly squashed it down. He’d barely had his own slave for ten minutes and he was already becoming a possessive bastard. His ‘friends’ would laugh themselves to tears if they knew.

 

The last things he looked at before they left were some bindings. Damian had always disliked the iron rings and cuffs most slaves wore in the market place, preferring the black leather ones his father used for the slaves in his stables. But Damian didn’t want to use one of their black ones. The black ones meant that they belonged to the Wayne household, not to a specific person. And this boy was _his_.

 

Damian hovered uncertainly over the color choices. His immediate thought was red, but for some reason, that didn’t really seem to fit. It would be far too garish in a house full of black bindings. He strolled through the rest of the colors before alighting on a green one. Green could work. His mother’s house colors, the colors of the Al Ghul family crest, were green and gold. Yes, he finally decided, green would do for now.

 

He bought a full set: collar, wrist and ankle cuffs, but did not put them on his new slave. The boy was filthy and there was no point in getting the new bindings dirty if he was going to be cleaned, which was the first thing Damian planned to do when they got back to the estate.

 

Finished with his purchases, Damian decided that it was time to go back and led them out of the market place. Their ride home wasn’t short, but it wasn’t long either. Wayne Estate was right on the edge of everything important in Gotham, and the ride gave his slave adequate time to get comfortable enough to try asking Damian a question.

 

“My Lord,” he said, and when Damian just looked at him but didn’t object to him speaking, he continued, “Was there anything… specific that you wanted me doing?”

 

Damian considered this. He hadn’t thought much further than getting the boy home and cleaned up so that he could truly look at his purchase. It was hard to see what lay underneath the grime and bandages.

 

“Not at this time,” he said truthfully, “When I want something specific I will tell you.” It was a promise, not a rule. He didn’t play mind games with his slaves. At least, not ones meant to damage. If he wanted something from them, he told it to them straight.

 

The boy said, “As you wish, My Lord.” And fell silent again. The silence, however, didn’t last long as they arrived at the Wayne Estate a few moments later.

 

Damian led them through the side entrance that was used for unofficial comings and goings. It wasn’t unusual to see him using said entrance, and if it kept his new purchase away from prying eyes a bit longer, Damian had no objections.

 

He called to the first slave he saw, a young girl he vaguely recognized, dressed in the Wayne House black collar, cropped shirt, and small shorts. All of the females wore shirts. “Have a selection of light foods brought up to my rooms. Things that are easy to digest,” he said and made sure she understood what he wanted before letting her to her task. The girl scampered away as Damian led his new slave towards his rooms in the west wing.

 

His rooms were far away from the main hustle and bustle of the estate. Damian preferred it that way. Things were quieter and he had a wonderful view of the garden from his bedroom. And because his rooms were on the opposite end of the estate from where his father worked, it was easy to get to them unnoticed.

 

He quickly led the boy through the lounge area to get to the suite’s bathroom. The bathroom was a decent size, with a large tub along one wall and a vanity with a wide couch on the other. In between was a spacious walk-in shower that could easily fit three grown men with room to spare.

 

Damian stopped in front of the shower and ordered his slave to strip, doing the same himself. The boy quickly dropped his new pants and Damian pushed them off to the side with his foot, making note to have them burned later. Damian then turned the boy around and undid the iron collar and cuffs, letting them fall onto the pair of soiled pants, before steering him into the shower.

 

Usually it was the other slave’s task to clean up a new purchase. Masters need not soil themselves touching filthy slaves after all. But Damian wanted to get a good look at every inch of his first personal slave, and figured that this would be the perfect opportunity.

 

He considered turning the shower on full blast to scour the dirt off of the boy, but the boy’s whip marks from earlier were still raw and oozing. Blood had even started staining one of the makeshift bandages. Pounding water at this point would probably do more harm than good. So, he cranked the knobs to release a gentle stream of warm water and placed the boy under the spray.

 

His slave shuddered when the water touched his skin. It was hard to tell if it was from pleasure or pain, but when he made no move to escape the spray, Damian continued with his ministrations. His slave’s eyes followed Damian as he quickly soaped up one of the wash clothes from the shower’s supply shelf and began scrubbing away the dirt and grime. Damian tried to be gentle, not wanting to damage his new property any further but the dirt and grime were caked into the boy’s skin and Damian wasn’t the gentlest person by nature. The boy ended up letting out a few pained cries and whimpers while he worked, mostly when Damian accidentally pressed too hard on a wound that was not bandaged. It was surprisingly hard to tell the difference between a patch of dirt and a yellowing bruise.

 

After the first good scrub, Damian was shocked and a bit disgusted to find out that the boy was quite pale. The fairness of his skin didn’t bother Damian so much as the knowledge of how much dirt had to have been on him for Damian to originally assume that the boy’s complexion was about as dark as his own.

 

He was also unnerved to find so many scars on the boy’s young flesh. Scarring was not uncommon on a slave, but he had never seen markings this extensive. His slave’s skin was riddled with shiny scar tissue, some new, but most fairly old. The old ones had already begun to fade a bit, shimmering pearly white under the shower’s lamps. Thankfully not many of the scars were raised. Damian suspected that the boy must have undergone surgery at some point to have the welts removed. There was even a small scar across the bridge of his nose, a garish break in the light smattering of freckles across the boy’s cheeks.

 

The boy looked at him nervously; obviously worried that Damian would be displeased by the scars. There must have been a scowl on his face or something because the boy spoke up suddenly when Damian ran a thumb over the scar on his nose.

 

“My Lord, the scars are just superficial, I can still do whatever you need of me, I swear,” he said hurriedly, real fear in his voice.

 

He suspected that the boy was worried he’d be taken back to the seller where Damian had gotten him, but despite his abrasive attitude, Damian was not cruel. If he had truly been displeased he simply would have added the boy to the house stables to be trained and sold at the next opportunity. The boy didn’t know this, though.

 

“-tt- I had assumed as much,” Damian said, disguising the slight relief the boy’s words had stirred. He had been concerned what he would find when he inspected the boy’s genitals.

 

As it was, Damian moved on to washing the boy’s hair. The dirt and grime there was even harder to remove. Parts of his hair had snarled into dreadlocks while unknown substances had hardened it in others. Damian made an unhappy noise and left to get the scissors from the vanity.

 

Since he was a bit taller than the other boy, it made it easy to see all of the parts that needed to go. Back in the shower with scissors in hand, he cut them out quickly before standing back to see how bad the damage was.

 

The boy looked as if a rogue knife had attacked his head in the dark. Several patches were ridiculously shorter than others, most of cuts had been taken out of the top and back, leaving the sides their original length, and there was a single, long bit that projected from his forehead. Damian bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing, but it seemed as though his slave could tell anyways. He glared a bit, cheeks going pink from embarrassment. Damian patted him soothingly on the shoulder and tried to even out the ends as much as he could. When he stepped back to admire his handy work again, the boy’s hair looked better, if a bit lopsided, and Damian made another mental note to get his hair professionally cut as soon as possible.

 

Now able to move his hands through his slave’s hair without being impeded, he quickly scrubbed out a good several months’ worth of dirt and grime. It was gross but that’s why he had chosen the shower instead of the bath. The dirty water flowed smoothly away from them and down into the drain.

 

He was again surprised to find that his slave’s hair wasn’t the original shade of brown he has assumed it to be, but instead a light red. As Damian smoothed conditioner through the roughly cut locks, he decided that it suited the boy’s inner fire perfectly. Damian also took his time looking for lice, ticks, or fleas, and was extremely relived to find none, knowing how much of a hassle it would be to get such parasites removed.

 

His touch must have been soothing however, because the boy began to hum a bit in the back of his throat as Damian glided his fingers behind the boy’s ears and over the back of his head. It was a nice sound, almost like a purr, and Damian would have stopped to see what other sounds he could draw out of the boy if he hadn’t needed to finish cleaning him.

 

Now Damian finally addressed the poorly bandaged wounds, taking great care not to tug anything away too harshly as he unwrapped them. His slave hissed as the raw flesh was deluged under warm water from the showerhead. Most of the cuts were healing nicely and would only need light dressings, but the one on his arm that had previously bleed though its bandage required stitches.

 

Damian made another unhappy sound at the sight of it. Briskly he did another quick scrub with a clean washcloth and more soap to take away the final layers of filth, doing his best to avoid open wounds while cleaning the skin around them. He also paused momentarily to look over his slave’s genitals and wash them thoroughly. They looked to be in good shape, even better shape then the rest of his body with all of its scars. He bent the boy over to look at his anus and traced a single, small scar that trailed away from the hole with the washcloth.

 

The boy made a small choking noise and Damian stopped to ask, “Does it hurt you?”

 

“No, My Lord. I was simply surprised,” he said quickly, and Damian pulled him back up to look into his face and see if he was lying. He _seemed_ sincere enough; although his sincerity was marred by his obvious worry that Damian was dissatisfied and would be taking him back to the slave markets.

 

“Tell me if it does,” he demanded, gripping his slave’s uninjured arm tightly, “I do not like slaves who lie.”

 

“It doesn’t hurt!” He insisted, hesitating a moment before adding, “I’ve just never been touched so… softly before.” Damian took a moment to search his slave’s face for any hint of deceit, but the small blush that had surfaced at his admission was proof enough of his sincerity.

 

Damian made a small noise of consent and released him, instructing him to sit on the shower’s small bench while Damian made short work of scrubbing the dust from the marketplace off of his own body.

 

It took him far less time to clean himself and in minutes Damian had them both out of the shower, his slave wrapped in a large towel and seated on the wide couch near the vanity. He brusquely put bewitched salve on the wounds, ensuring that they would heal in a matter of days rather than weeks. The salve also had a bonus feature of disinfecting wounds and his slave whimpered a bit as it stung his raw flesh.

 

With that done, Damian surveyed the deep gash in his slave’s arm, clicking his tongue against the back of his teeth in disapproval. He had applied the salve to it on principle, grimacing at the broken sob the disinfectant elicited from his slave. Unfortunately the salve had done little to the wound but clean it, which meant that it was probably worse than it looked. He scowled as he looked over the medical kit he kept in the bathroom’s closet for those occasions he didn’t want his injuries reported to his father, and picked out the extra items he would need.

 

Numbing liquid, sterile needle, and medical-grade thread in hand, Damian got to work stitching the wound closed.

 

His slave looked at him in unbridled awe, barely wincing as the needle darted through his flesh.

 

“My Lord, you… you know how to stitch up a wound?” he sounded almost baffled. Apparently none of his previous masters had been versed in field medicine, or showed that they were versed in it at any rate.

 

Damian didn’t look up from his work as he explained, “All of the men in my home country are apart of the army whether or not they actively serve in it. Lessens in field medicine are required by law.” That wasn’t _strictly_ true. All of the men from his mother’s land were apart of the army, and it was encouraged that they take lessons in weapons training, combat, field medicine, etc, but it wasn’t actively enforced. Unless you lived under his mother’s roof that is.

 

His slave didn’t say anything to that but Damian caught sight of him slowly nodding his head in his peripheral vision. He finished up his work in silence, swabbing the freshly sutured wound with another helping of the bewitched salve before bandaging all of those wounds that should not be exposed to open air.

 

Damian cleaned up before fitting the green cuffs and collar onto his slave. They were a bit loose due to how skinny he was, but they looked good next to his pale skin and red hair. Damian then took his slave’s towel and gave his hair one last towel-dry before tossing both of their towels into the hamper. He shrugged into a robe that was previously hanging on the bathroom wall and instructed his slave to put on one of the many black cotton shorts stored in the bathroom closet (as well as every closet in the Manor).

 

Damian didn’t have a fetish for the tight shorts like his father did, but they were convenient so he wasn’t about to complain.

 

Upon entering the lounge, Damian noted that the slave girl had fulfilled his request to a T. Light sandwiches piled high on a silver platter, a steaming a vat of soup, and a pitcher of water greeted them as they entered, as well as, to his shock, the head butler.

 

Damian stalled in the doorway, a frown creasing his face.

 

“Pennyworth, what are you doing here?”

 

“Simply bringing the sustenance you requested, Young Master.”

 

At his reply Damian’s frown deepened into a scowl. The head butler did _not_ do petty tasks such as bringing lunch to the Lord’s bastard son. Not unless, of course, he was curious as to why Damian had ordered such a simple meal for two people.

 

Damian was debating how to get rid of Pennyworth without revealing what he had done when the head butler’s eyes locked on a point next to his shoulder. Glancing behind him, Damian saw that his slave had poked his head around Damian’s shoulder, apparently curious as to what was keeping them in the doorway to the bathroom.

 

Alfred broke the silence before Damian could think of what to say.

 

“I hadn’t realized his Lordship had authorized a purchase for today,” he said as if it didn’t matter one way of the other.

 

“He didn’t,” Damian snapped, knowing that no matter what he said the head butler was going to go right to his father after this and report what he had done.

 

“I see,” was all the head butler said, before continuing courteously, “Please, enjoy your meal.” And left the room.

 

Damian let out a frustrated sigh, knowing he was in for another long, pointless argument with his father, and steered his slave to the couch by the food.

 

His slave stared at the meal in awe and disbelief, as if it was a vision from heaven. Damian supposed that to him it probably was.

 

He smirked a little when the boy’s stomach rumbled audibly, but grew concerned at the way he had a death grip on the seat cushions, as though he had to physically restrain himself from jumping on the food. Such a meal, it seemed, was straining his will to obey his training, even with the threat of punishment looming overhead. It was well known in their society that a slave could not eat without their master’s permission, especially in their presence. Even though, in this case, Damian had ordered this food for the both of them.

 

He did not like his slaves sickly or scrawny.

 

However, Damian was still reluctant to give him free reign over the meal incase his slave gorged himself too fast. He would just end up upsetting his stomach, it being unused to so much food after so long, and vomit everything back up. Then they’d be back to square one.

 

Quickly, Damian poured water into one of the cups on the table, filling it up only a quarter of the way. He then grabbed his slave’s chin and forced him to look away from the food and face Damian, pressing the cup into his hands as he did so.

 

“Drink,” he commanded, “Slowly.”

 

His slave obeyed, eyes flicking back to the table every so often as he drank, looking afraid that the food might vanish if it was out of sight for too long.

 

While he drank, Damian selected a sandwich from the pile and broke it apart into smaller bites; these he hand-fed to his slave, ordering him to chew slowly and making sure that each piece was fully devoured before giving him another.

 

His fingers brushed his slave’s lips as he fed him, and Damian was glad to feel that the salve had already begun working, closing the cuts and smoothing out the chapped areas. He could also feel the light brush of his slave’s tongue on the sensitive pads of his fingers and smirked. So he had been trained to do this much at least. That was good. It was one less thing to teach him.

 

This pattern continued for some time. Damian was careful not to overtax his slave’s digestive system and his slave sat there patiently, readily accepting whatever Damian handed to him. Once it became clear that Damian wasn’t going to let him starve, his slave’s eyes had stopped flicking towards the table, and instead followed every movement of his hands like a cat expecting a treat.

 

It seemed that starvation was a highly effective, if cruel, training tool.

 

After his slave had devoured two sandwiches and a cup and a half of water, a knock sounded on Damian’s suite door. He stood to answer it, unsurprised to find a free servant there with a message. Damian was to report to his father’s study immediately.

 

He sighed, let the servant know that he understood and waited for the man to turn on his heel before closing the door and looking back at his new slave.

 

Ice-blue eyes stared back at him curiously and his slave ventured his third question of the day, “Is something wrong, My Lord?”

 

Damian ran a hand through his hair in frustration and replied simply, “Nothing I can’t handle.” He would not let his father take this from him.

 

Heading to his bedroom to change into clothing more appropriate to meet his father in, he quickly turned as if remembering something and looked at his slave again, making sure that he had his full attention.

 

“I will be back in a moment. Do _not_ touch the food.”

 

 His slave nodded quickly, “As you wish, My Lord,” and Damian shut the bedroom door behind him. He impatiently threw on the casual garments he usually wore when lounging around the estate: loose pants, a sleeveless cotton tunic, and a light pair of shoes, before reentering the lounge.

 

His slave had not moved from the spot, and to Damian’s surprise, was no longer looking at the table laden with food. Instead, his pale eyes were studying the suite’s architecture, alighting on the intricate reliefs along the ceiling and the brocade fabric of the curtains. That was… interesting.

 

“Are you full?” he asked, going back over to his new slave and draping his bathrobe over the boy’s shoulders. He had noticed him beginning to shiver as the residual heat from the shower evaporated into the coolness of the room. Damian noted that he would have to keep his rooms warmer if he was going to have a slave in here more often.

 

“No, My Lord,” he said, surprised at being given his master’s robe. He clutched it tightly around himself as if it might be snatched away, thin fingers curling into the thick fabric.

 

Damian made a small noise of confirmation and filled a bowl full of soup for the boy.

 

Before handing it to him he instructed, “Eat it slowly. If you become full, stop eating. If you feel like you’re going to be sick, stop eating. If I come back and find that you have been sick I am going to be most displeased.”

 

His tone was firm and his new slave was equally as serious when he replied, “Of course, My Lord,” and took the bowl from him.

 

Straightening, Damian said, “Try one bowl for now. I shouldn’t be gone long enough for you to need another.”

 

He watched as his slave nodded in understanding once again and left his rooms.

 

…

 

“Close the door behind you,” Bruce said, not looking up from his papers.

 

Damian scowled and did as he was told before plopping into the seat on the other side of Bruce’s large, mahogany desk. He waited in silence for his father to say something.

 

After a moment Bruce set down the documents he had been going over and looked pointedly at his son.

 

“Alfred tells me that you have made a new purchase today while you were out.”

 

It was a statement, not a question, but Damian still responded, “I have.”

 

Bruce did not look pleased.

 

“You know the procedure here, Damian. Purchases must be approved of between the house and the seller before hand so that we can make sure to provide the necessary arrangements.

 

He continued, his tone slightly mocking, “And I’m sure _you_ of all people know the state of our stables at the moment.” He meant the argument they had had a few nights prior about the way his father treated the competitive aspect of the family business. “We have no room for a raw, untrained slave of dubious origins.”

 

“Those procedures would apply, _father_ , if I was bringing him in to join our stables,” Damian responded in a clipped voice.

 

Bruce blinked at him, absorbing what he had all but said.

 

After a moment he concluded, “You’re too young to have a personal slave, Damian.”

 

“I’m _eighteen_ ,” Damian hissed, “And a legal adult. That’s more than old enough.”

 

“It isn’t just about age, Damian. He may have a bit of training as a slave—I don’t know. But _you_ have had absolutely no training as a master. It takes time and energy and _emotional stability_ to train and manage a slave properly.”

 

As he emphasized the last few words, Damian gave an almost imperceptible wince. His temper was infamous on the estate. Even the local nobles seemed to know how quickly he angered, which was infuriating considering that he hardly spent any time among them.

 

“From what Alfred said, it sounds as though this slave is severely malnourished and ill-kempt; hardly a good indicator of decent health and upbringing. What do you intend to accomplish by keeping it as a pet project? Do you even know if it is clean?”

 

“What I ‘intend to accomplish’ is none of your concern,” he all but snarled, purposefully ignoring the second part of the question.

 

By ‘clean’ his father hadn’t meant the washing they had done earlier. No, he was asking if the boy’s blood was pure; if he was free from any ailments or harmful STDs. Damian was ashamed to say that he didn’t know. He wouldn’t be surprised if the boy did have something, though, considering the condition he found him in. It was obvious that he had been in the care of someone decently wealthy at some point, and personal slaves of wealthy people did not usually end up with such trash as that merchant unless something was seriously wrong with them.

 

Although, he thought hopefully, he hadn’t seen any telltale signs of malignant illnesses when he had cleaned him. That was something.

 

“If it’s money you’re worried about,” Damian continued, “I have more than enough saved from mother’s monthly allowances to reimburse you.”

 

“It isn’t money, Damian,” his father said and sighed, “I’m just worried that you may be taking on something you are not ready to handle.”

 

“I can handle it,” Damian replied coolly.

 

“You _think_ you can handle it.”

 

“I _know_ I can handle it.”

 

When Bruce looked unconvinced, Damian continued, “Father, I am going to assist you in running the Estate’s business at some point, right?”

 

Bruce nodded slowly, seeing where this was going but choosing not to comment.

 

“And I’ll have to be a master to not just one slave, but dozens at a time. If I cannot handle this one, what’s to say that I will ever be good enough to step into your shoes? Let this be a test of my abilities. I will _prove_ to you that I know what I am doing.”

 

Bruce hesitated for another moment, mulling it over. Damian did lack experience as a master, and most of the slaves they had at the moment were either fully trained or too young to begin training. He sighed when his mind presented him the only course of action.

 

“Alright,” he said finally, but firmly added, “But just this one until I am sure you can handle owning a slave.”

 

“-tt-“ was all Damian said before belated continuing, “I’m sure you won’t be disappointed, father.”

 

Bruce hummed noncommittally and looked over the roster he had attached to his desk.

 

“I’ll schedule Dr. Elliot to see your acquisition when he comes in tomorrow. What name should I write down?”

 

Damian stared at him, blank faced. What _was_ his slave’s name? How could he not know his own slave’s name? Damian hurriedly wracked his memories of the day but couldn’t recall ever asking the boy what his name was. Shit. This was really going to sink Bruce’s expectations of him.

 

Bruce just sighed when Damian didn’t answer and massaged his temple with the hand that held his pen.

 

“I’ll just mark down for him to see you,” Bruce said and scribbled down a few notes on the list. “Are there any other things you need?”

 

“I need to call in a hair dresser and someone to style a wardrobe for him. Is there anyone you would recommend?”

 

Bruce looked up at him and raised an eyebrow. “’Him?’”

 

Apparently Pennyworth hadn’t disclosed as much information about his slave as he thought.

 

Damian frowned. “Yes, father. ‘ _Him_.’”

 

He couldn’t believe that his father was questioning the gender of his slave. Him of all people! _He who had male slaves wearing little shorts visiting his rooms at least twice a week._

 

“Interesting first choice,” was all Damian got for an explanation as Bruce rummaged through a filing cabinet, pulling out a few cards and leaflets for different hairstylists and costuming companies.

 

“These are the ones we usually use,” he said as Damian picked them up and perused their contents. “Each has their own style, but all are reliable and give good, quality service.”

 

Damian nodded his thanks and made to leave.

 

Before he could get to the door, however, Bruce said, “Make sure you know what you want from him before you go into this. Otherwise, you’ll just confuse him and ruin the training.”

 

Damian glanced back at his father, pausing for a moment at the intense look in Bruce’s eyes. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said after a beat and hurriedly left the office to start proving his father wrong.

 

…

 

Damian barged into his rooms, starling his slave who had been nodding off over his empty bowl.

 

When their eyes met Damian snapped at him harsher than he meant to, “What is your name?”

 

The boy looked a mixture of frightened, concerned, confused, and wary, but his voice was strong when he replied, “Colin.”

 

Colin. Easy enough to remember. Ok. Why was he suddenly so nervous? He could do this. He’d been doing fine before the meeting with his father. It was stupid to be nervous.

 

Colin studied him warily; waiting to see what mood he was in.

 

Damian ignored this and focused on the empty bowl in his lap.

 

“Are you still hungry?” he asked, remembering that he was trying to bulk up his emaciated slave.

 

Colin shook his head, still looking unsure. “No, My Lord. I’m plenty full.”

 

Damian nodded absently and started considering what he should do next. None of the people he planned to call in could be there until tomorrow at the earliest, and he didn’t dare do anything sexual with him until Dr. Elliot could look him over.

 

Colin’s eyes began to droop before he snapped them back open, trying and failing to remain vigilant in front of his new master. It looked as though Damian’s decision was being made for him.

 

Damian took the bowl from him, setting it down on the table before steering him into the bathroom to brush his teeth.

 

He ordered Colin to open his mouth and Damian inspected his teeth, running a finger over his gums. They looked healthy if a bit stained, and he wasn’t missing any which was a welcome surprise to Damian. He then got out a tube of toothpaste and a new brush and watched Colin brush his teeth to make sure that he did it correctly. He did. It only confirmed Damian’s theory that someone wealthy had owned him at one point.

 

When he was done, Damian led him to his room and ordered Colin to strip. Colin shivered at the slap of cool air on his bare skin and waited for more orders.

 

“Sleep,” Damian instructed, gesturing to the bed.

 

Colin looked at him, confused. “Is this not your bed, My Lord?”

 

“It is,” Damian said, “But I have no other accommodations for you right now. So it’s either this or the floor. Take your pick.”

 

Colin opted for the bed. He timidly crawled under the covers, trying not to disturb too much of the opulent bedspread as he situated himself.

 

When he was settled Damian ordered him to sleep once again. “We’ve got a busy day tomorrow, so sleep while you can.” With that he walked out of the bedroom, turning off the lights and closing and locking the door behind him. He didn’t expect Colin to try and escape, but it was always better to be on the safe side.

 

And now that Colin was taken care of, Damian was able to leave his suite to make a few calls.

 

…

 

Colin, for his part, thought he was dreaming.

 

He was pretty sure that The Pig (his seller) had finally knocked him on the head hard enough to give him a concussion. That was the only reason he could think of for the opulent, wonderful dream he had had. True, he was still a slave in his dream, which was a bit of a bummer, but his master was like no one he had ever met before.

 

He had tanned skin, like those from countries far to the southeast, with storm-blue eyes. And he had paid _five_ silver pieces for him. _HIM!_ Then he had not only given Colin pants (he couldn’t remember the last time he had had so much fabric on his body when in public) but had taken him home and _washed Colin himself_!

 

Masters simply did not do that. This was definitely a dream.

 

Even more proof of this fact was that the washing hadn’t _hurt_! Well, it had hurt a little, but it wasn’t on _purpose_. Sadly, even in his dreams Colin was pretty damaged. And then he had treated Colin’s wounds, going so far as to stitch up the gash on his right forearm _himself_ (the one he had earned for ‘being in the way’ of his seller’s whip). This part had elevated the dream from fantasy to outright delusion.

 

Master’s didn’t have practical, mundane skills like knowing how to suture a wound.

 

Then, to top it all and make sure that his hopes and dreams were smashed to dust when he finally did awaken, he had been given _food_. Not just a little food, but _as much food as he could handle_. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been given so much food.

 

And his dream-master-who-definitely-could-not-exist had given him _his robe_. He had been given _his master’s robe_. Colin wasn’t sure how hard he’d been hit to start having delusions to this extent, but he figured it must have been pretty hard.

 

It would’ve had to have been hard enough to make him unable to feel most of his body. Hard enough so that he felt nothing but warmth enveloping him as he lie there, like he was simply floating in a sea of silk, more comfortable than he could ever remember being in his life. And he really, _really_ didn’t want to wake up. It had been such a good dream…

 

When a bright light shone into his eyes then, blinding him, Colin had a fleeting thought that maybe he was dying and that the dream had been his farewell gift from a life spent in misery.

 

But then he opened his eyes and found that he was wrong. Blinking the spots from his vision, he saw that the light was _not_ heavenly, but simply a stray beam from the morning sun filtering through a window near the bed.

 

The curtains from said window had been withdrawn by his dream-master. Morning light fell upon his semi-clothed form as he looked out at the world, his skin glistening from the sun’s pale rays. He looked ethereal and Colin again questioned if he were truly awake or not. However, as he shifted between the sheets, he could feel the stinging and aching sensation of his many injuries. He hissed in pain when the bandage coving the sutures in his arm tugged, pulling against the ruined skin.

 

At the hiss his new master (not his ‘dream-master’. No, he was definitely awake no matter how surreal this situation seemed) looked over at him.

 

“Good, you’re awake,” he said. He reached over to a side table and picked up a dark bundle before throwing it on the bed at Colin’s feet. “Put this on. Breakfast is in the other room.”

 

His master moved to strip off his own shirt.

 

Colin stared as he slowly began to do what he was told.

 

Now that he was more awake he could see that his new master was covered in sweat, which explained how he had glistened in the sunlight.

 

“I will be in the shower,” his master said.

 

“Do NOT,” he continued, his tone very serious, “gorge yourself. If you become sick I will be very displeased. And when I am displeased you _will_ be punished. Is that understood?”

 

Colin nodded as he finished putting on what looked like a duplicate pair of the small shorts he had been wearing yesterday, adding in an, “As you wish, My Lord,” which probably sounded more like ‘Of course, My Lord.’ These orders were nothing new, and, to be honest, he was surprised that his new master was only now mentioning the possibility of punishment. Usually it was the first thing any master said to their fresh slaves so that they knew what tortures would be awaiting them should they misbehave.

 

His master made a small noise that sounded like “-tt-“, which he could only assume meant some form of assent, before leaving the bedroom. Colin waited for him to go through before following, taking his first real steps into this new and bizarre chapter of his life.

* * *

**A/N: If you have any comments or critiques on my writing/characterization please don't hesitate to tell me as I would love to hear it! This fic was beta'd by my lovely friend Vil. Hope you enjoyed, although I'm still not quite sure why I wrote this. There's a 75% chance that I will go back in and edit quite a bit of the beginning.**

**Please, if you have any questions let me know! (Because that means I need to go back in and explain the detail/situation better.)  
**


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